


Shoot me in the heart

by affluent_absolution



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Doctor John, Fluff, M/M, Sherlock Gets Shot, complete ignorance of medical things, delirious sherlock, distressed sherlock, it's fine, painkiller high sherlock, sleeping on a hospital cot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 12:27:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8489665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/affluent_absolution/pseuds/affluent_absolution
Summary: nano is kicking my ass and i wrote some of this a while ago on my phone so here's the finished version *cringes*what's a title? no one dies. shoot me. the author. sherlock does get shot. in the shoulder though. and heart because love? who tf knows





	

John knew Sherlock's luck had to run out at some point. So when the bullet whizzed at Sherlock, a steel blur bearing down at a mile a second, it almost didn't surprise him when Sherlock didn't quite dive out of the way fast enough. No, surprise didn't rush through his system; anger did. Anger and an unholy amount of adrenaline. Running to Sherlock's side, John loosed a bullet from his own gun that happened to nail the criminal in the thigh. The shooter went down clutching his leg, gun clattering somewhere. John allowed himself a fraction of a second of proudness before dropping his own gun and kneeling at Sherlock's side. The man was gasping, trying to sit up, sweating profusely, and. . . crying? Yes, two small tears formed at the edge of his eyes.

John was absolutely furious.

"Don't you fucking move, you git, lay there while I fix your bloody gunshot wound."

Sherlock lay back.

"I'm sorry, John, I'm so sorry, I thought-- it shouldn't have-- completely improbable--"

"And shut up too." John's steady hands pulled the coat back, noting the hole in the material. The wound was in his left side, clear through. Very near to grazing him, but not close enough.

"Shit," he breathed, looking for something to stop the bleeding with. He ended up settling for his jumper. Thick material, good enough. He ripped the buttons off Sherlock's shirt and tied the jumper tight enough, he hoped. As Sherlock gasped and tried not to move, John dialed Lestrade.

"Sherlock's been hurt. Send an ambulance."

Within five minutes, six squad cars and an ambulance were pulling up to the alley. Paramedics hauled Sherlock off, with John running behind, chasing Sherlock's anguished cries of his name, proclaiming his position as Sherlock's doctor. Reluctantly, they let him ride with Sherlock in the ambulance.

"You right git, you're not allowed to do that. You're not allowed to get shot. You're not allowed to die." The tubes and bags around Sherlock looked strange, out of place.

Sherlock grabbed John's hand from where it was resting on the edge of the gurney.

"I'm not dying, John. I swear."

John interlaced their fingers and held on for dear life as the ambulance jolted its way to the hospital.

When they arrived, John stayed back as the paramedics shouted to the doctors, "GSW to left shoulder, exit wound, controlled the bleeding, given one of morphine in the field. Vitals stable." He knew how irritating it was to have loved ones making a scene while the doctors were trying to administer care. He didn't work trauma, but still.

It turned out that Sherlock had been whisked directly into surgery to decrease the risk of infection. It made for a long wait with other anxious mothers and fathers and spouses and siblings, all hoping for good news. He thumbed through a couple of dull magazines, checked his phone for messages from Lestrade, even paced a bit. But he couldn't get his mind off Sherlock. Christ, the git. Tormenting a serial killer, what a bright idea. The man was shot at all the time, it was a miracle he hadn't been lethally shot yet. Hadn't been shot at all until today. John reckoned that was some sort of record.

John had dozed off in the stiff hospital waiting room chair when a nurse nudged him.

"Mr. Holmes is out of surgery, sir," she said. She had mousy brown hair and bags under her eyes.

"Thank you. How did it go?"

"Very well. Room 212."

John stood, stretched, and took the elevator to the second floor. For once, miraculously, he couldn't tell where Sherlock's room was just by sound. Usually if he was ever dragged to the A&E, Sherlock made such a ruckus that when John arrived he barely needed to know the floor number to reach Sherlock. Today, though, Sherlock was probably knocked out with anesthesia and therefore silent.

John ducked into room 212 and sighed with relief. An oxygen tube was hooked over his ears, but an oxygen mask was conspicuously absent. Sherlock snored quietly in bed, and John watched his chest rise and fall under the white bandages. John sat in the stiff chair-- the same one as in the hospital waiting room-- next to Sherlock's bed and settled back. After twenty minutes, Sherlock snuffled and shifted. John sat up a little straighter.

"J-Joh-" Sherlock coughed, voice rasping with post-surgery roughness. John knelt by Sherlock's bed and shushed him.

"Don't speak, sh, it's fine." He pressed the call nurse button and within minutes a nurse was there with ice chips. John was incredibly suspicious Mycroft had something to do with this. She scuttled out and John was left in the room with Sherlock. He pressed an ice chip to Sherlock's lip and the man took it gratefully.

"John," Sherlock said, still raspy, but better. Quieter, a whisper this time. John fed him another ice chip.

"I'm here," John said, and laid his hand over Sherlock's.

But again, Sherlock croaked out his name. "John- don't- why-" He cleared his throat and tried again. "Don't leave."

"Of course not, Sherlock," John said. "I'm here, I won't leave."

"No- don't- don't leave. Ever. I won't- I wouldn't survive." He coughed again, and John gave him an ice chip.

"I know, you idiot. Great example, today was."

"No- not. Not physically. I love you."

John's heart stuttered. "I love you too, Sherlock."

Sherlock, eyes still closed, smiled gently. "You do?"

"Of course."

Sherlock coughed again and John gave him an ice chip. "God, I'm tired. What did I do?"

"You got shot. In the shoulder, no less."

Sherlock snorted a laugh and groaned. "We match now," he said.

"Don't you fucking dare," John said, but a smile tugged at his lips. Sherlock smiled again, but said nothing, and they both stayed in silence for a long while. John had taken up stroking the back of Sherlock's hand when he realized Sherlock had fallen asleep.

 

When the nurse returned in the morning for Sherlock's post-surgery exam, she found John's torso draped over the side of the bed, hand still holding Sherlock's.


End file.
